Tuesday, April 24, 2012

I get to keep my boobs! (Yes, this is blog-worthy.) I got those puppies squeezed in a mammography contraption last Friday and by Saturday afternoon I was holding a note in my hand telling me how fantastic my breasts are. Okay, so their actual words were "your breast examination did not show any sign of cancer or any significant change since the prior study", but what they meant was "Damn, Erika, your boobs ROCK!"

WOOT! Time to buy some new bras for my healthy (and completely awesome) rack!

My mother had a tradition for years that every clear mammogram would be celebrated with fancy new duds for the girls. I liked that. So I adopted the tradition as my own. *yoink* Mine.

Thanks, Mom.

New bras make me think about gravity and the defiance thereof and all kinds of things that make me question the awesomeness of my breasts. Whatever masochist came up with the idea that our breasts should not suffer the effects of gravity was a fool. I mean, it's pretty inevitable. Long boobs are Borg. I have to say, when Long and Low is one day considered fashionable, I will be super-ready for it and jump up and down to show my excitement, probably aiding gravity in its quest, but who cares?!Resistance really is futile. And at last I will be chic!

Since Stacy and Clinton haven't made the announcement that low riders are in, I'll make the world believe they've maintained their optimum height...for now. But because my once bodacious ta-tas find themselves closer to the Navel Sector every year, Flopsy and Dropsy need a boost in the form of industrial strength hoisting. I fed three children with these things. They will never be perky again (without major surgery) so I torture myself daily with bras that could set off metal detectors. Eventually, my Xena the Warrior Princess get-up will get a chink in its armor, leaving me to risk puncture left and right.

I can see the headline: Death by Under-wire.

But I put myself through it because they make my boobs look freaking awesome and those tasseled pasties make my thighs itch.

Call me "Ishmael".

These are the absolutely true stories of Erika - wife, mother of three, and word ninja. When not writing wrongs or battling her nemesis, Dishes Galore, she enjoys poking people with sharp sticks until they make little squeaky sounds. *poke*